The argument started small—something about practice, a missed block—but it burned too quickly to stop.

“Maybe if you actually cared about something,” you snapped, “you’d understand what it’s like to want to win for once.”

Tsukishima’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t act like you know me.” His voice was low, dangerous. Every word felt like it was pulled through his teeth.

You didn’t back down. “I do know you. You hide behind logic because you’re terrified of feeling anything.”

That did it. He stepped forward, closing the space until you had nowhere to go. The air was sharp with his breath, his jaw locked tight. “Say that again,” he whispered, almost too quiet.

“You heard me.”

The next second, his fist slammed into the wall right beside your head. Plaster cracked. Dust drifted between you like smoke. The sound echoed in your chest.

He stayed there, forehead lowered, his arm still trembling from the force. His other hand pressed against the wall to keep himself steady. His knuckles were red—maybe bleeding a little—but he didn’t look at them. He looked at you.

Anger, regret, and something unbearably human flickered in his eyes. “You think you can just—” he started, voice breaking, “—get under my skin like that and walk away?”

You could barely breathe. “Then stop pretending you don’t care.”

He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. The space between you was already burning.

After a long moment, he stepped back, breath heavy. “You drive me insane,” he muttered, pushing his glasses up with shaking fingers before turning away.

The wall was cracked, his hand was bleeding—but you were both still standing, hearts pounding in sync with the silence.